The Dream

POV: Scarlett

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The nightmare came for her at 3:17 a.m.

Scarlett knew the exact time because she had been staring at the clock when sleep finally pulled her under—the red digits on the bedside table pulsing in the darkness like a heartbeat. 3:17. She had lain awake for hours after leaving her studio, after covering the painting of the two hands, after promising Adrian she would come to him if something was wrong. She had lain there and listened to his breathing deepen beside her, slow and even, the breathing of a man who had no trouble sleeping.

And then she was falling.

The dream came without warning, without transition. One moment she was in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The next moment she was falling through darkness, her hands reaching for something she couldn't see, couldn't touch, couldn't hold. The wind screamed past her ears. The ground rushed up from below, vast and invisible and inevitable.

She was falling.

And she was not alone.

A man was falling beside her. She could see him in the periphery of her vision—dark hair, sharp features, the same face from the gala, the same face she had painted in her studio. He was reaching for her. His hand was outstretched, his fingers straining toward hers across the impossible distance between them.

She reached for him. She stretched her arm until her shoulder ached, until her fingers trembled, until she could almost feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

But she couldn't reach him. She could never reach him.

I'll always find you.

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. It was her voice, but it wasn't. It was younger, happier, full of a joy she didn't recognize and couldn't remember. It echoed through the darkness like a promise she had made a long time ago and forgotten.

I'll always find you.

The man's fingers brushed against hers. For one brief, impossible moment, she felt the warmth of his touch, the pressure of his grip, the certainty that if she could just hold on—

He slipped away. The darkness swallowed him. And she was alone, falling through nothing, screaming without sound, reaching for a hand that wasn't there.

Scarlett woke gasping.

The silk sheets were twisted around her legs like restraints. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything else. She pressed her hand to her chest and felt the wild rhythm beneath her palm, felt the terror coursing through her veins like ice water.

She was in her bed. In the penthouse. In Adrian's apartment. She was safe. The dream was just a dream. It had always been just a dream.

But tonight, it had been different.

Tonight, she had seen his face.

"Scarlett."

Adrian's voice came from beside her, soft and concerned. His hand found her shoulder in the darkness, warm and steady. The touch was gentle, comforting, the touch of a man who loved his wife and wanted to soothe her.

"Bad dream?" he asked.

She turned to look at him. His face was shadowed, but she could see the outline of his features—the perfect jaw, the perfect nose, the perfect expression of concern that he wore like a mask.

"I don't know," she lied. "I don't remember."

It was easier to lie. It was always easier to lie. If she told him the truth—if she told him she had dreamed of falling, of reaching, of a man with dark hair and eyes that looked at her like she was the only person in the world—he would worry. He would schedule more appointments. He would find more specialists who asked questions she couldn't answer and prescribed medications that made her feel like she was floating outside her own body.

He would tighten his grip on her life, and she would lose what little freedom she had left.

"You were saying something," Adrian said. His thumb traced circles on her shoulder, slow and soothing. "I couldn't quite make it out. A name, maybe."

Scarlett's blood ran cold. "A name?"

"Something that started with a D." His voice was casual, curious, but she could feel the weight of his attention, the sharp assessment beneath the warmth. "Or maybe a V. It was hard to tell."

Damian. The name surfaced in her mind before she could stop it. Damian Ashford. The man from the gala. The man who had caught her champagne flute. The man who had looked at her like he knew her.

She pushed the name down, buried it beneath layers of control and composure. "I don't remember any dream," she said. "I never do."

Adrian was quiet for a moment. His thumb continued its slow circles on her shoulder. Then he sighed, a soft sound of concern and resignation.

"Maybe we should see someone about this," he said. "The nightmares. The sleep disturbances. They've been getting worse, haven't they?"

Scarlett didn't answer. She couldn't answer, because he was right. The nightmares were getting worse. The fragments were getting sharper. The face in her dreams was getting clearer. And she didn't know why, and she didn't know what it meant, and she was terrified of finding out.

"I'll make an appointment," Adrian said. His voice was gentle, loving, the voice of a devoted husband. "A specialist. Someone who can help you. Would that be all right?"

All right. The words landed in her chest like stones. Nothing was all right. Nothing had been all right for five years. But she nodded anyway, because that was what she did. She nodded. She agreed. She let him control everything.

"Thank you," she said.

Adrian kissed her forehead. "Get some sleep," he said. "You need rest. You've been working too hard."

He settled back against the pillows, and within minutes his breathing had evened out. He always fell asleep so quickly. He never had nightmares. He never painted strangers' faces in the middle of the night. He never felt like he was losing his mind.

Scarlett lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, her heart still racing. The fragments of the dream were already fading, dissolving like mist in the morning sun. But one image remained, sharper than the rest: the man's hand reaching for hers, the scar on his finger, the desperate certainty that they had reached for each other before.

She couldn't sleep. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep. The dream was still too close, the fear still too raw.

She got out of bed.

Her bare feet were silent on the cold marble floor as she moved through the penthouse, past the living room, past the kitchen, past the photographs of her and Adrian that lined the walls. She didn't look at them. She didn't want to see the smiling strangers in those frames.

The studio was dark when she entered. The covered canvas was still on the easel, waiting for her. She stood in front of it for a long moment, her hand hovering over the drop cloth. She was afraid of what she would see. Afraid of the hands reaching for each other, the scar that matched her own, the evidence of something she couldn't explain.

But she needed to see it. She needed to know.

She pulled the cloth away.

The two hands stared back at her, frozen in their desperate reach. One hand reaching up from the darkness. One hand reaching down. The space between them was maybe an inch—a tiny distance that felt like an eternity. And there, on the smaller hand, was the scar. Her scar. The same ridge of tissue, the same placement, the same shape.

She hadn't meant to paint it. She hadn't consciously included that detail. But there it was. Proof that her body knew things her mind couldn't remember.

Scarlett sank onto the stool in front of the easel and stared at the painting until the sun rose. She didn't move. She didn't paint. She just sat there, looking at the two hands reaching for each other, and wondered what else her body was trying to tell her.

And why her husband didn't want her to know.

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